The Thieves’ Guild

by Jeff Crook

  Gaeord mopped his brow with a green silk handkerchief, then nervously tugged at the gold chain dangling around his neck. He had not shaved, having been awakened before dawn by his footman with the report of the break-in, and now his jowls itched abominably. He glanced from the Thorn Knight to Mistress Jenna, but her severe gaze only served to turn his blood to ice. She must know already, without his having said a word. His news must necessarily displease her, since what was stolen was hers. She had ordered and already paid (quite handsomely) for it the previous autumn. Then again, she might be his saving grace. The special dispensation concerning all things magical that Mistress Jenna enjoyed might shield him from Sir Arach. He could hardly be convicted of smuggling dangerous magic if he was but the carrier for someone who enjoyed immunity from the law.

  He cleared his throat as he stuffed the handkerchief into the sleeve of his pajamas. “It was a quantity—mind you, a small quantity—of dragonflower pollen,” he said, ending with a nervous laugh he hoped would seem nonchalant.

  “Dragonflower pollen!” Sir Arach exclaimed. “I am surprised at you, Master Gaeord. I had thought you limited your activities to more mundane contraband. Little did I suspect that you were importing the most illegal substance in Palanthas. The pollen of the dragonflower grows only in the Dragon Isles, where it is death for mortals to tread. In small amounts, it prolongs life and returns the flush of youth. Greater quantities, I’m sure you know, bring madness and death.”

  “It was for a friend,” Gaeord pleaded, staring at Mistress Jenna. The Thorn Knight followed the direction of Gaeord’s gaze.

  “Ah, that explains the presence of the renowned Mistress Jenna,” Sir Arach said.

  “Yes, it was for me,” she finally admitted without apology. “I funded the expedition "to the Dragon Isles, not Master Gaeord, though it was his ship and crew. I can’t afford a second expedition. I want the pollen returned to me at once, and,” she added to the Thorn Knight, “I expect you to see that the Thieves’ Guild is punished most severely.”

  “Who said anything about the Thieves’ Guild?” Sir Arach asked somewhat crossly. “There is no Thieves’ Guild in Palanthas. This is the work of petty criminals, nothing more.”

  “Well, whoever they are, I want them caught. You Knights of Takhisis talk about how you maintain law and order. I want to see it in action. If you won’t do it, I certainly will,” Mistress Jenna angrily threatened.

  “Yes, and today is Spring Dawning festival,” Gaeord said, trying again to change the subject. “Might we hurry this up? The festivities begin in a couple of hours.”

  “I would have been finished by now, if you had been honest with me from the beginning and if others wouldn’t keep interrupting!” Sir Arach snarled. “If I might have a few moments to examine this room, I think I might be able to move forward with my investigation. Do try to stay out of my way.”

  With that, the Thorn Knight sank to all fours and began to crawl this way and that over the floor, pressing his nose into corners, laying his face on the flagstones, and staring for long minutes at things the others could not see. Occasionally, some exclamation of surprise or discovery escaped his lips, but only once during the course of his odd caperings did Sir Arach speak, to ask, “How often is this floor polished?”

  “Daily,” Gaeord answered.

  Nodding, the Thorn Knight removed a pouch from a pocket of his robe and struck it against the floor. A cloud of fine white dust erupted from it and settled on the floor. He examined it for a moment, nodded again, then turned his attention to the loft door. He stood in the embrasure for some moments staring down into the reflecting pool below, then turned his attention to the inner walls, then the outside of the wall above the opening. Lastly, he lifted the doors’ wooden bar and examined it in detail.

  He crossed the room and carefully studied the entrance from the hallway, taking special care around the door’s brass lock and running his fingers along the edges of the doorframe.

  That accomplished, he finished his examination at the pool of blood where he had begun. He knelt beside it, then dipped the tip of his finger into it. He held the sample up to the light and peered at it with one eye shut, sniffed it, and popped the blood-smeared finger into his mouth.

  “Gods!” Gaeord said in disgust. Mistress Jenna turned away, exasperated.

  Sir Arach looked at them, still sucking his finger. Almost apologetically, he stuffed his hands into his pockets and rose to his feet. “The final test. Had to be sure,” he said by way of explanation.

  “Test for what?” Jenna scowled.

  “Cause of death,” he said.

  “Whose death?”

  “I think if Gaeord can have his servants drag the reflecting pool, we may discover the answer,” Sir Arach said.

  “So what happened?” Gaeord asked.

  “Two thieves entered this chamber, one by the door from the hallway—one of them had a key. The lock has not been picked, neither has the door been jimmied. The other thief must have entered through the loft.”

  “Impossible!” Gaeord exclaimed. “He would need wings!”

  “I am afraid it is only too probable. The bar was lifted with a knife, as evidenced by the groove at its exact center. Were the bar raised from within this room, there would be no cut in the wood.”

  “Perhaps he did have wings,” Jenna conjectured, her brows wrinkling together suspiciously. “Perhaps he used magic to fly.”

  “If he had such power, he could also have lifted the bar with his magic. No, this was a common thief,” Sir Arach said. “I suspect that he dropped from above.”

  “From the sky?” Gaeord laughed. “The roof was patrolled by my best guards, and all entrances were closely watched. What you suggest is impossible.”

  “The simple fact remains,” Sir Arach said drily, “that two thieves, two thieves sir, did enter your house. It is pointless to argue that they couldn’t have done it, for they did! If I can answer how, it might lead us to who.”

  “Go on,” Jenna impatiently ordered.

  The Thorn Knight glared at Gaeord for another moment, then continued, “Having entered the chamber, he found it occupied by another of his profession. A scuffle ensued. You can see the palm print on the floor there, where I dusted with powder, as well as a streak where one of the two slid across the floor. Having wrestled, the one killed the other with a dagger through the eye.”

  “How do you know that?” Jenna asked.

  “By tasting the blood, I was able to detect the presence of eye fluid as well as brain fluid. I have made extensive study of bodily fluids and trained my senses to detect over three hundred different kinds. I can tell the blood of a dog from that of a man by smell alone. Mixed fluids need a more involved sampling.”

  “It’s disgusting,” Gaeord muttered involuntarily.

  “It proves nothing,” Jenna added.

  “On the contrary, it proves that one of the two died, and since his body is not in this room, it must lie in the reflecting pool. His identity might lead us to that of his enemy, but I doubt it. In any case, having procured the dragonflower pollen… you have noticed, I am sure, that he stole only the dragonflower pollen, and left all these other valuable commodities behind him, which suggests a commissioned theft—actually, two commissioned thefts…” he paused, gazing from beneath his heavy lids at Mistress Jenna.

  She noticed the accusation in his stare, and her face turned crimson with anger. “You dare!” she hissed.

  “Who besides yourself and Master Gaeord knew of the precious stuff?” Sir Arach asked.

  “Why would I steal from myself? I already purchased the dragonflower pollen!” Jenna barked.

  The Thorn Knight then turned to Master Gaeord. The master of the house flushed, then began to stammer, “Yes, there were others! I… uh… the captain of my ship… his officers… the crew might have discovered… servants… enemies… household spies!”

  “Well, it is useless to speculate at this point. I must have more data,” Sir Arach sa
id with a grim smile. It was obvious that he was enjoying his little performance. “As I was saying,” he continued, “Having procured the pollen, he then made his escape…”

  “But where did he then go?” Gaeord asked.

  “An excellent question, and one that will help solve this case,” Sir Arach said, as he rubbed his hands together. “Did he make his exit through the loft or the house?”

  A maid appeared at the doorway and cleared her throat. As Sir Arach turned his eyes upon her, she curtsied, then said in a voice hurried by her nervousness, “M’lord said to notify him of anything out of the ordinary.”

  “What is it, Mira?” Gaeord asked.

  “We’ve found something at the balcony, sir,” she squeaked.

  “Lead the way!” the Thorn Knight shouted in excitement. The maid fled in a swirl of cotton skirts.

  Together, Sir Arach, Mistress Jenna, and Gaeord uth Wotan made their way to the balcony overlooking the main entrance to the house. The maid having long since disappeared, Gaeord led them along a circuitous route through the more fashionably decorated parts of the house, pausing occasionally to adjust the hang of a valuable painting here, running his hand lovingly along the rim a priceless vase there, using all the tricks he usually employed to impress his more frequent but less-notable visitors. However, every time his eyes met those of Mistress Jenna, he found her staring at him as though she thought him quite capable of trying to cheat her. Meanwhile, Sir Arach grew so impatient with Gaeord’s diversions that he finally shoved the wealthy merchant aside and took the lead. The Thorn Knight’s rapid, deliberate stride brought them quickly to their destination. Gaeord could barely suppress his astonishment that Sir Arach seemed to know the way, even taking a secret door that cut thirty steps from their journey.

  They arrived at the balcony through the large gilded mahogany door. Two guards, still wearing their holiday ribbons, stood near the hall entrance flanked by the bronze statues. On the floor at the feet of one of these statues lay a palm-wide strip of black cloth about three feet long. It was to this that they directed Sir Arach’s attention. He lifted it carefully by one corner and held it up to the sunlight streaming through window.

  “Curious material,” he noted. “I know the weaver. He shall be questioned. Hello! What’s this?” He plucked something from the hem. “The thorn of a rose. Now we are getting somewhere. The material itself has been cut by a sharp instrument. The cut is not straight, which indicates that a tailor’s scissors did not shear it. It looks rather more like the veil cut in twain by an expert swordsman.” He eyed the statues for a moment, then nodded as though his suspicions were confirmed. He then held the cloth to his nose and sniffed deeply, while his eyes wandered over the room, taking in every detail.

  Suddenly, he dropped the cloth and dashed to the head of the stairs, where one of numerous marble busts stood atop its pedestal set in a deep niche along the wall. He stared at it intensely for a moment, then turned his eyes to the floor behind the pedestal.

  Seeing his interest, Gaeord remarked, “That is a bust of Vinas Solumnus. It was carved by the renowned sculptor Makennen in the year—”

  “Yes, I know!” Sir Arach snarled without turning. “I find its position more of interest than its quality, which is quite poor, I assure you. It’s an obvious forgery.”

  “A forgery!” Gaeord fairly screeched. “Why I paid over—”

  Again, Sir Arach interrupted him. “Be that as it may, you have taken such great care with the perfect placement of the thirteen other busts along this wall that I find it difficult to believe you would leave this one so carelessly out of line. Why look, he faces almost a quarter turn away.”

  “Remarkable,” Mistress Jenna said with obvious disdain. “I applaud your keen observation.”

  Sir Arach glared at her for a moment. “It proves that one thief, at least, entered by way of the front door.”

  “Impossible,” Gaeord interjected.

  “I was on guard at that door all night, sir,” one of the guards protested. “No thief got by me, I assure you!”

  “Nevertheless, he did ‘get by you,’ as you so eloquently put it,” Sir Arach replied caustically. “He ascended these stairs, hid here for a moment behind the pedestal, then made his way under the arch protected by those two magical and highly illegal bronze guardians, who only managed to slice a few inches of cloth from his cloak. A most clever and resourceful adversary. I shall enjoy capturing him. Now, to the front door, where I am sure we shall find more of interest.”

  With these words, like a hound upon a scent the Thorn Knight flew down the stairs, his gray robes fluttering around him in his speed. The others followed more slowly. They found Sir Arach crawling about the grass plot near the doorway. The owl, still perched on its stand by the door, eyed him sleepily.

  As the others strode out into the bright morning sunlight, Sir Arach rose slowly to his feet, wrinkling his brow. He searched the ground with his eyes while his long, spatulate fingers nervously scratched his chin.

  “Why, what ever is the matter?” Mistress Jenna mockingly asked.

  “Most curious. Most curious indeed,” the Thorn Knight answered distractedly. “Here, as you can see, are the same foot- prints as those left in the dust behind the pedestal. They are quite unique, I assure you. There can be no mistake that they are identical. Observe the square toe and the curious oaken leaf pattern on the left heel.”

  Jenna and Gaeord leaned over the spot he indicated, but they saw nothing other than a blade or two of grass that might have been bent by a heavy tread.

  Shrugging, Jenna asked, “So what is the mystery?”

  “They go the wrong way. They do not enter the house, they leave it,” he answered. “And there is something most strange about them. I cannot put my finger on it, something about the way…” His voice trailed off as he turned and walked slowly along the front of the house, his eyes scouring the ground at his feet, pausing occasionally to examine a blade of grass or touch an indentation only his eyes could see.

  Jenna strolled along behind him, with Gaeord trailing the famous sorceress so that he wouldn’t have to feel her eyes boring into his back. As they walked, Mistress Jenna muttered angrily to herself. Gaeord stepped closer to hear.

  “Waste of time. Why doesn’t he just use his magic to solve it? Over-brained fool. I could track down the thief with a spell at any time,” she grumbled.

  “Why don’t you then?” Gaeord asked.

  “What?” She spun round, and Gaeord was sorry he’d asked.

  “That’s his job!” she spat, pointing at the Thorn Knight. “I’ll not waste my magic chasing…” She let the words die on her lips as Gaeord stared at her curiously.

  Sir Arach stopped by the fountain and knelt. As Jenna and Gaeord approached, he said, “The thief paused here for a time. I wonder why, unless…” He crawled away, his nose almost to the ground.

  “Here!” he announced. “The light tread of a lady’s slippers, perhaps a girl. She was dancing.”

  “Dancing, you say?” Gaeord asked, the blood draining from his face.

  “An accomplice?” Jenna asked.

  “Not likely. Probably, she didn’t even see him. I marvel, though, at his iron nerve, to stay hidden while she danced so near. In any case, her path leads toward the house, his leads, unaccountably, away.” Again, the puzzle crossed his narrow brow. Rising, he continued along the trail only his eyes could see.

  It led them eventually into the garden, and finally to the rose hedge beside the wall. Sir Arach stooped beneath the hedge, vanishing through a barely perceptible gap in the thick thorny screen. He returned almost immediately, something bright glimmering on his outstretched palm.

  “I marvel, Master Gaeord, at the baubles you leave lying about your garden. What fruits do you expect to grow from it? This, I believe, is one of the famous Laertian Combs, renowned for their priceless rubies, which you gave to your daughter on her sixteenth Day of Life Gift. And here is an ivory button-not really ivory, whale�
��s tooth actually, which is favored by the middle classes over the more expensive true ivory. I don’t imagine you would allow your own daughter to wear such trash. Perhaps her companion lost it.”

  With a strangled cry, Gaeord snatched the condemning evidence from the Thorn Knight’s palm. Sir Arach vanished again behind the roses. Jenna chuckled and looked away.

  A burst of insane laughter erupted from the rose bushes. “What a fool I’ve been. It was before me all the time. There is nothing so misleading as an obvious clue,” the Thorn Knight berated himself, all the while cackling hideously. The sound of it, like nails dragged across a slate board, made the others cringe.

  His head appeared through the bushes. “Come, come. You must see this. Ah, I can’t have been so blind. Watch yourself. The thorns are sharp.”

  With obvious reluctance, Gaeord stooped through the rose bushes and found himself in a close, shadowy arbor completely hidden from any passersby in the garden. At the back of it, the outer wall of his estate rose some dozen feet above him.

  Jenna remained on the path outside. “I’d rather not,” she said to the Thorn Knight’s entreaties.

  “Suit yourself. You’ll miss seeing what a fool I’ve been,” Sir Arach said.

  “I am certain other opportunities will arise,” she answered coldly.

  Returning to the arbor where Gaeord crouched red-faced and breathing heavily in the shadows, Sir Arach motioned to the wall. There, he pointed out the clear marks in the deep garden loam of two bootprints. Gaeord looked at them for a moment, then turned a questioning gaze on the Thorn Knight.

  “Don’t you see?” Sir Arach asked. Gaeord shook his head.

  With a sigh, the Thorn Knight continued. “If you were to stand at the wall and leap for the edge, what sort of marks would your feet leave?”

  “I haven’t a clue,” Gaeord answered.

  “Toes indented, dirt flung away from the wall,” came the shouted answer from beyond the rose bushes.

  “Thank you, Mistress Jenna,” Sir Arach shouted in response. Turning back to the bootprints, he continued, “As you can see, the toes here have hardly left any impression at all, while the heels are indented quite deeply, which is indicative of someone landing, not jumping.”